


"January's full moon,"

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: F/M, Racist Language, Rule 63, girl!Peter - Freeform, post season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 15:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12390996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: ‘Gypsy bitch.’  He almost says it looking at the shape of her nose and top lip over the mouth of her beer, peachy, sticky, hoppy shit, on sale.





	"January's full moon,"

**Author's Note:**

> something I finished writing for Hurt/Comfort Bingo  
> prompt was backrubs/massages  
> maybe a little loose with the prompt

He makes lists when he’s high: _cars, birds, trees, clouds, trailer door_ ( **open, shut, slam, slap** ). _Ocean sound road, wing scuttle-flap._

 

He looks up at the fuzzy baby needle branches of spring and the fluffy confections of clouds.

 

All the things that time, slowed down to the sticky, syrup drag of inebriation, let slip from some blurry reality into his conscious awareness.

 

Double clink of brown bottles.

 

The hammock rocks, dangerous like a sling, like the way a girl’s panties stretch when he puts his hand down the front.

 

His eyes slit, wider, closer, something, he can see more and it’s not easy to make her just give him a beer when he’s high, he needs to ask, not just look.

 

“Hairy bitch.”

 

She snorts.

 

Her cotton underwear say “ _good eatin’_ ” on them and her ankles bracket one of his hips, china white against her swarthy sunbrownedeness where his polo’s pulled up from as he contemplates the canopy of a skeletal tree and grey-blue sky with one arm tucked behind his head.

 

There’s a foot between his legs, settled on his dick’s unfavored side.

 

He’s always been a leftie.

 

He glances at them and finds that the knuckles on her feet are monkeyish, dark hairs clump there too.

  

He’s still not completely used to it, not her hempy-mulch scent or her unbuffed, unwaxed, unbothered happiness and not her lack of interest in trying to at least fly under the radar with some basic maintenance.

 

There are other, less obvious things. Her grin that’s just as wide as his and the way she drifts into silent staring out a car window is more than familiar.

 

They still aren’t the same.

 

_‘Gypsy bitch.’_

 

He almost says it looking at the shape of her nose and top lip over the mouth of her beer, peachy, sticky, hoppy shit, on sale.

 

“You smell, you know. It’s almost enough to make me sick.”

 

She takes a moment to take her eyes off nothing and her mouth off her beer to watch him not drink. She leans her head back on the netting, it tilts to the right to smile with closed lips, scrunched eyes, and puffed cheeks. There’s a shit eating grin trying to stretch open her mouth. She makes a sucking sound.

 

“Doth my vulgar unwashed flesh offend thee, my lord.”

  

He can’t help his smile. Petra makes him laugh.

 

“Thy reeking twat doth offend, mightily.”

 

She snaps for the joint he’s been bogarting.

 

She puffs, sips, dribbles. She’s braless tits, farmer’s tan arms, hair sprinkled bikini line and Roman rubs up her prickly calf with a full palm, waits for the surprise, there’s nothing but her foot shifting to his leftie.

 

Her toes curl, uncurl, gauging length and girth with blind estimation.

 

He wants to fuck her on the threadbare, scratchy trailer carpet that smells like beer and overturned ashtrays. He wants to fuck her in the woods.

 

He doesn’t tell her that. “There’s a show about gyspies on tonight. Weddings. Looks like world shittiest prom.”

 

She adds the pressure of her heel and he’s beginning to swell.

 

“You wanna slander your way out of a foot job, little prince?”

 

The hammock sways.

 

“Getting an education after-all, highbrow?”

 

“I don’t know TLC, you tell me, you gonna marry me?” her cadence is jocular and on point, he can’t ever say something she doesn’t already have an answer too.

 

He wants to make her pretty and fuck her in his bed.

 

“Not until you visit the matchmaker. Might take you to prom though.”

 

She needs an Asian bitch to fix her shit. His finger jabs between her thighs, at the soft girl parts between them, she’s spotting red, only reason he stuck around, got so high.

 

“A man had his lady agog. And was ready to slip her the log, but her dog interfered and a crisis appeared, so he first threw some meat to the dog,” she sing-songs, eyes opening again into vicious, self-pleased slits as he jolts up towards her arch.

 

There’s a nudge with every line to his dick.

 

“That a limerick?” he tries for carelessness but he needs to inhale sharply to keep from twisting up and whining like a fucking dog himself.

 

She leans to pass along the joint, long hair falling over her bare and diamond splayed knees, “Yup.”

 

There’s an exaggeration as she falls back to the hammock, long sigh and shut eyes, exhale of “Christ, I’m horny.”

 

“I’ll throw you some meat.”

 

She only takes away her foot and resettles herself, the scent of blood blooms.

 

Later, when he finds all her hair in the bathroom sink, he can only think of how badly he wants to see her.

 

Unfulfilled wish shit that’s made from lust and a longing for mortal combat.

 

It's only one day on the edge of the evitable end that still hasn't peeked through their not-quite-benign friendship out of so many other days but it's the only one he dreams about once winter has come, thinking of how cold she must be in the woods under some florescent light bright moon, running through the snow, her cast off flesh steaming on the ice until it freezes.

 

 _‘Gypsy cunt,'_ he thinks, turning over in bed lonely like a little boy again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> january's full moon is called the wolf moon


End file.
